


Forget-Me-Not

by txuyas



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love, m/m but its unrequited and i hate myself <3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:11:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/txuyas/pseuds/txuyas
Summary: You are 17 when you cough up pretty blue petals





	Forget-Me-Not

You walk into a new class and you're a bit terrified. You only know one person, really. You don't want to know others, really. Friends aren't a strong suit of yours. You keep your head low. You wonder if people are staring. Its as if their eyes are boring into your head. You shrink down, you keep your eyes low.

You see a boy. You see him and you don't think much of it. He's across the room. Well, not clear across, but he's a bit far. He seems friendly enough, and he keeps to himself a bit. He's tall, taller than you (isn't everyone?) and maybe has some freckles. You can't really tell. You can't look him in the face. Not yet.

You talk to him a week later. You're sat across from him, and you both realize you two have interests in common. You talk about shows. About books. You both like a series, but you can't tell him that your favourite couple is gay. Gay gay gay, you try to avoid that word. You don't know him. Not well enough to use that word. Not yet.

He talks you into watching some shows. You recommend some to him. You never ask if he's watched them. He never says he did. You start to think maybe he could be a friend. A friend to talk and laugh with. You think that would be nice, maybe.

He finds out you're gay. Gay gay gay. You want to clarify bi, but it doesn't matter by now. You didn't get to tell anyone on your own terms, in your own time. Your friend made a crude joke that outed you. You laugh along. Your hands are shaking under the table.

You miss school sometimes. At night, its like you can feel breath on your neck again. Its like you can feel hands, around your neck again, under your clothes again. Pounding fists breaking up your ribs again. Music helps sometimes. It helps to numb it all, a bit. You're awake all night. You sleep through your alarms.

You've formed a small band of friends at school. You're glad he never made the "as long as you don't hit on me" joke. He's the only other guy in the group. You're usually scared of men. You avoid the ones in your class, even. But he's okay. His voice is kind. He wouldn't hurt you. His eyes are so different than the ones you try to forget.

He dates. It doesn't affect you, he's your friend. You want him to be happy. But the pda makes you a bit sick. You want to ask them to do that somewhere else. But it might come out wrong, it might sound jealous or angry. Really, you just don't care for it. You just want to focus, to do your work.

You like hanging out with him. He understands your jokes, and you can show him dumb stuff on your phone that makes him laugh. You love making others laugh. You have a use. You have a talent, a job. Making others smile and laugh makes you feel warm.

Its cold outside. Snow crystals gather in your hair. They fall on your nose. You want to reach for a hand that isn't yours to hold. Its just because its cold, you think to yourself. There's nothing more to it.

There's something stuck in your throat. You cough, and feel something resting on your tongue. You pull it off. A tiny, light blue flower petal. You wonder when you'd inhaled that. You don't notice that there are no blue flowers growing nearby in November. You don't think twice about the petal as you let the wind blow it away.

Its easier to talk to him, now. You can tease him for being the token straight friend. You can laugh about dumb stuff, and snort laughs during lectures. Its nice. It gets colder outside. You imagine huddling together for warmth.

You realize you might like him. You're terrified. You want to vomit. This isn't okay. This isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay _**this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay this isn't okay**_.

You're so scared.

You spit up more blue petals, hunched over a trash can at home, away from prying eyes. You know these petals aren't from outside, now. You know what this is. You know what this means. But there's a break from school. The separation should help. This'll pass.

This'll pass.

You spit up six more petals.

You spit up ten.

School starts again. Your chest feels warm when you see him. You fight back the urge to cough. You sit in a group of three, with him and his girlfriend. When he gets up to get a paper, she calls you a name. You laugh it off, you say she's too mean, that you're mortally wounded. You laugh. But she doesn't. And you know it wasn't a joke at all. But how could you say something? She's your friend, right?

That night you relapse. It hurts but you deserve it. You deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it you deserve it y̸̢̢̨͉̲̥͉͖͍͚͈͓͛ͅǫ̴̨̡̢̹̲̣̙͉̗̝̝̮̙̖̯̝̺̔̒̀̍͂̏̕͘̕u̸̢̢̡̜̖̜̤͚͕͕͔̦̬͔̜̥̬̅͊̃͑̐́͂̈͝ ̶̫̞̜̒̽̍̾̿̌͐̋d̷̨̨̤̗̰͎̞̘̙̜͚̣̱̼̪̫̺̦̫̜̑͒̽̏͌̐̈̇̆̽̆͒̋͠ͅȇ̷̡̢̨̤̠̳̱͙͇̜̺͖̀̌̑̋̿͝s̵̨̬̒̆̂͌͐̑̄̉͒̉̃͗͊̚̕͠ȩ̴̘͎̣̻̙͈̉͑̇̇͒̎̇̓̃̏̓͑̕͝͝ŗ̷̡̤͈͔̗̞̘̙̗̣̼̱͇̄̈́̈́̆̽̑͋̈́̾̃̽̀̈́͊̅́͠v̵̧̥̦̗̞̏͗̏̎́e̶̛̼̘̺̳̘̬̳̹̮̟̟͈̞͙̺̮̣̳̒̔̏͘͜ ̶̢̛͍͕͕̼̹͈̰̘͕̳͇͔̝̮͎͈͊̅̈́̋̂̐͠͝͝ì̵͉͖̞̻͊̅́̿̚ť̸̛̯̤͎͚͌̂͊̊͌̈́͂̍̐̈́̑́̉̐̈́͗̕͠ ̶̡̢̮͉̯̭̙̙̻͕̺̗̭͖̤͙̱̰̹̏́̐̿͒̂̈́̈͗̓̄̊̆̒͑͘ỹ̶̨̡̙̞͉̜̪̪͖̲̲̬̖̠̩̙̣̫̟͉̦͌̾̈́̃̅̑̓̒̌͋̕ơ̷̢̠̠̬̖̹͍̽̌̑͆̐̽͒ȕ̵͕̩̰̞̺̩̱̬͈͖͒̈́̓͑̾̋͐̈́̂͂͗̈́̌̓͒̚͝͝ͅ ̵͖͙̳̯̞͉̣̪͍̂̽̉͆͋̃́͒̓͑̊̄͛̿̅͜͝d̵̢̳͍͉̝͍̣̱̳̲͕̫̭̣̈́́͐é̵̝̂͋̓͌̌̆̑̈́͋̋̊͑͝͝s̵̡̬̟̟͚͔͇̒̈̿͛͂̒̉̑̌̾̆̍́̚͠ê̸̯̱͙͐̌͜r̴̺̤͖̝͈̹͉̔͝v̴̭̮̟̫̤̦̹̮̩̣͎̠̳̲͕̱̀̋̒͒̎̎̃͂͆̔̌̚e̴̮͈͉͂̐͐͗͑̓̊ͅ ̵̧̡͍͚͚͇͕̣͔̱͒̓͌ỉ̴̩̻̈́͆́̎̽͛̽͛̕ẗ̷̡͓͈͍̩͉́̍̅̽ ̵̢̖̘͚͓̻͔̘̠̻̖̞̣͙̜̮̮͊͗͂͊̓̄̅̈̇̈́͑͘͜y̴̡̨̪͚̲͉̞͙͈̱͙͈̥̦͔̪͋̐̉̈́̓̈́͒͑̽̂̕͜͠͝o̶͇̾̀͗̐̂́̐̇͐͂͂̑̑̈͜ͅų̴̞̯̼̫͇̹̯́͒̿̏̓̆͐͑̕͝ ̶͍͕̼̗̭̮̣̍̈́̽̓̓͊͑̐̒͑̾̎̐̕͜͠ͅd̴͔̼̖̜̣͓̣͈̼͕̪̀͆̌̂͑͋̊̎̃͊̈͒̓̅̉͠ͅͅę̴̡̘͇̥̺͚̀̄͝s̴̱͍̝̦͕̮̱̖̮̋ȩ̵̧̞̻͕̹̙̬̮̟̮̞̗͓̮̥͈̪̾͂͊͑̑͗̑̃̂͑̈́͒̾̊̐̈̆̌͋͒͜ř̷̢̢̼͉̯͓̘͙̌̽͂̓̑̂̐̄̌̑̎̈́͆̌̾̇͝ͅv̴̯̳͉͎̲̣͕̝͖̙̮̫̙͍̤̰̑ͅė̸̡̧̛̦̘͕̳̠͉̻͍̦̥̗̩̲͇̍͑̀̆̽͊͌̕̕̕͜ ̶̧̙͒̓͂̉̊̀̈́̑͐̒̋̈́̋̅͛̅̕i̵̧̘̣͎̺͙̦̓̓̓̏͑̆̃͘̕͜ţ̴͕͔̝͙̦̦̠̞̭͕͕̣̔͛͂͜ͅ

You cough up more petals. You haven't seen a doctor. You can't. Not yet. Not now. You can wait. It'll pass. It'll pass.

It hurts to breathe.

And suddenly, you're isolated. You don't know how it started. You don't know when it began. One day you were laughing in your group. And then you were on the outside, with her shoulder-checking you away and forming a quick group that leaves you out.

Sorry, she says, smiling. Smirking.

  
_Its_  
_your_  
_fault._

The petals are more rapid now. You can taste blood in your throat. Your voice is raw. You ignore it. This is a phase. This is a test.

You still text him. You wonder if she knows. You don't mention it. You don't want to ruin this little safe space. You won't give up so quick. You try to place yourself in the group. You move your chair closer to the group. You comment on conversions. You start new ones. You make jokes. You won't be forgotten.

Right?

The petals are tinted red now. You can't walk quickly without getting winded. You wonder what stage you're in. You wonder if you care.

A sleepover at the museum is happening. Its exciting. Its cool. Its new.

But you're scared.

Because you know you cry in your sleep. You know you scratch and scratch and _scratch_ during bad nights. You know you wake up trembling with tears on your cheeks. And you wonder if your friends will hate you for these things. You wonder if you should even go.

You pack your bag. You bring earbuds and snacks and a handheld game. You'll stay up all night. You won't be a bother, then. You cough up blood stained blue petals. There's blood on your fingertips. You wipe it off, wash your hands. This'll pass. This'll pass.

The night of the trip is nerve-wracking. While others set up their beds, your heart hammers in your chest. You wonder if they can hear it. You wonder if he can. You hope not. You hope to god not.

Everyone lays down, hushed whispers and giggles surrounding the groups. No one wants to sleep yet. But as time passes, the whispers fade out and soon, there isn't a sound to be heard.

You try to stay awake. But the caffeine is well out of your system from the morning's coffee, and your eyes are so heavy. You listen to music. You flex your toes. But your eyes slip shut against your will.

When you wake up, its still night time. Theres someone gently holding your hand, whispering that you're alright. You smell blood. You know you were scratching. You know you were crying. That you still are. There's wet on your cheeks. You can't stop whispering that you're sorry, you're sorry, _you're sorry, you're sorry._

When you wake, everyone is still asleep. You find the bathroom. You vomit blood.

The trip ends sooner than expected. You stayed close with him during it. It was comforting. He was there. You were okay.

You can't eat anymore. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to breathe. You cough into tissues to conceal the blood spots. You're dizzy when you walk. Your hands shake. Entire flowers come up your throat. Morbid, blood soaked blue flowers fill your trash can. They fill your thoughts. You can't get up some days.

A week later, his girlfriend vaguely goads you to kill yourself. You know you should. But there isn't really any point, now.

You're already dying.

He keeps conversations bright, when you're silent. He includes you, sometimes. It means a lot, to you. That he still thinks of you as a friend. You're sorry to leave him. You hope he won't mourn. You don't want him to hurt.

Its a quiet May night. You look out at the stars, outside your window. They shine bright. They invite you to dance with them.

You are 18 when they find a boy, dead in his room with flowers in his lungs, suffocated by a love that would never be reciprocated.

You are 18 when they bury him. With lilies, with chrysanthemums, with daisies.

You are 18 when you die.

**Author's Note:**

> Haaaa. Most is actually based on true events. The only thing that didn't happen was the museum trip. And obviously hanahaki isn't real. Anyway. Sorry if it didn't make a lotta sense. My tumblr is txuyas, ig coochie-ha


End file.
